


Atychiphobia

by Bat_Snacks (Pyre_Prism)



Series: First Impressions at 4AM [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Eddie should try looking before he leaps, Gen, Pyreverse, fear toxin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 21:40:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15373908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyre_Prism/pseuds/Bat_Snacks
Summary: A mystery near the Dixon Docks attracts one of Gotham's most curious minds...





	Atychiphobia

**Author's Note:**

> I've borrowed a piece of headcanon from the tumblr user 'waiting4codot' for my version of Jonathan Crane. I recommend taking the time to check out his voice works if you can, they are excellent.

The streets in this part of Gotham were almost always dark, as if the layers of oppressive dimness that blanketed most of the city had never fully-lifted from the district, even on the brightest of days. But then, as it wasn’t daytime, the effect might have been heightened… His clean and crisp green suit made him stand out among the swamp of generic browns and greys, but no-one spoke up or blocked his way –everyone in the district knew who he was by now.

Everyone.

Purposeful strides carried him briskly towards one of the waterside warehouses, at the edge of the premises known as Dixon Docks. At one point, he’d owned it –constructed a maze of brilliant puzzle rooms throughout the building– but after the city’s resident vigilante had located it and destroyed most of the mechanisms that allowed the whole thing to function, the property had found its way back into the possession of a man known as ‘the Broker’… who, perhaps unsurprisingly, he’d bought it from in the first place…

Why was he returning to a building that he’d let go, sometime previous?

The answer was simple…

Because of who the Broker had very much not sold it to, since then.

The Riddler had caught wind of the unauthorised acquisition the last time he’d gone to do business with the Broker, and while it usually wouldn’t have struck his interest… this time was different. The Broker’s underlings had all suffered heart attacks… and then washed up on one of the many other banks of Gotham’s several islands…

It reminded him of a slew of attacks that had taken place throughout last autumn, with each and every victim suffering from inexplicable terror. However, to his knowledge, that whole thing hadn’t turned up a single clear suspect to put to the whims of either gavel or gun.

Thus, with his curiosity thoroughly piqued, Edward Nygma simply had to investigate.

The exterior of the warehouse had remained unchanged, but he could see evidence of the place being occupied –currently, at that– thanks to the dim yellow light visible through the windows high up on the walls. He paused, trying for a moment to recall just where the security cameras were when he’d owned it… but then he smirked, shrugged, and made a beeline for the main personnel door on the near side of the building.

Sneaking in wasn’t his forte, so, instead…

He rapped the curved head of his cane loudly against the metal door –once, twice– then he waited for a minute before repeating the action. And again. Just as he was about to knock one more time, he heard the tell-tale noises of latches and locks being undone –they sounded to be in quite a hurry, whoever they were– and he lowered the cane to lean his weight onto it, his smirk still firmly in place.

The door was yanked open almost immediately after the sounds of unlocking had finished, revealing nothing more than a tall and thin backlit silhouette… who said nothing.

“Good evening. I was in the neighbourhood, and decided to drop by. Lucky you.” Edward lied smoothly. The silhouette’s head tilted to one side, sighed, and shifted to create space in the doorway for him to enter if he so chose. “Nothing to say? Please don’t tell me that you’re mute; that would make this terribly difficult.”

“No… I’m not mute, Mister Nygma.”

He paused, the voice ringing a symphony of bells in his brain. Quiet, measured, and… “Jonathan Crane?”

A quiet chuckle was his reward. “You coming in, or not?”

Edward wasted no more time, sauntering past the other man into the warehouse’s interior. He heard the door being closed and locked behind him, frowning slightly at the latter note before leading the way through to where the light he’d noticed was coming from. Jonathan had seemingly put a makeshift laboratory together in the main space of the warehouse floor, with an eclectic array of various apparatuses and bubbling chemicals spanning multiple tables.

“I thought you said you’re a psychiatrist?” he asked over his shoulder.

“I got a doctorate in chemistry, as well… Is there a reason you’re here, Edward?” Jonathan hovered at the edges of the light cast by a camping lantern in the centre of the ‘lab’, his voice sounding tired and strained.

A trickle of unease slid down the Riddler’s spine, although it disappeared shortly afterward. “Well, other than what I already said, you mean? If nothing else, shouldn’t we catch up, sometime? You never came back to the coffee shop, after all.” He waggled a gloved finger at the taller redhead, clicking his tongue playfully. “However, I can tell you’re… a bit worse for the wear. Now that I have an address, perhaps I should come back later, instead?”

“…No. No need…” the ex-teacher sighed again. “Guess I’m not quite sure what to make of this visit of yours. We only met the once.”

“Ah, but wasn’t that meeting a pleasant one?” he pressed, stepping closer to one of the laden tables. An odd sound came out of Jonathan as he moved, prompting Edward to look back at his unwilling host, still half-hidden in shadow. “Don’t worry, I know better than to touch anything, especially in environments such as this. I’m just a little curious –what sort of concoction are you cooking up, here?”

The taller man didn’t reply immediately, pacing to and fro in a strange jerking stride while he apparently debated his answer. “It’s… something new. I was going to introduce it into treating my patients, but… there were ‘unfortunate side-effects’. Been tryin’a work out the kinks, since.” A yawn punctuated the last sentence, pulling Jonathan’s hidden drawl out into the open. Not for the first time, Edward found himself idly trying to place the accent, but before he settled on any singular answer he pushed that train of thought to the side for the time being, deciding to focus on what was actually said rather than on how it came out.

“Kinks, hm? Why, what does it do?” As the words left him, the green-eyed man realised that –in such a clearly off-kilter state– there was a small possibility that Jonathan might take the question as an invitation to procure his aid in that endeavour, potentially forcefully… Especially if the growing suspicions niggling at the back of his mind were accurate.

Jonathan moved again, still skirting the radius of light, stopping at what appeared to be a waist-high pile of boxes. Soft clinks reached Edward’s attentive ears –cans hitting each other, perhaps? “‘T’s designed to elicit a specific response, both physically and psychologically, only trouble is it’s both too strong and not strong enough… There’s just so many variables to take into account, not least of which being any pre-existing conditions…”

“Might I ask you a rather particular –or even peculiar– question?”

A scoff. “Yain’t been doin’ much of anything other than that, Ed.”

He rose an eyebrow at that –hadn’t Jonathan been much less informal during their previous conversation? Did his obvious tiredness influence what he called someone as well?– before returning his face to a perfect mask of attentive smugness. “What do you know about the people who suffered heart-attacks after paying this place a visit?”

“Paid a visit, you say?” The shuffling and clinking stopped, and the blue-eyed man finally moved into the light. He looked haggard; his shirt and jeans seeming to hang even looser on his frame than the man’s suit had when they first met, his eyes surrounded in deep shadows, and a dark bruise spanned the majority of one cheek… complete with a still-healing cut on the ridge of his cheekbone. Despite all of that, Jonathan smiled slowly and deliberately. “Oh… now, I remember… They wanted me to ‘move out’. Don’t know about any cardiac arrests, though. How unfortunate.”

“Well, this building does technically belong to someone else… Why ‘set up shop’ in a warehouse, though?” Edward waved one hand to gesture at as much of their surroundings as possible. “Surely there are much better locations to set up a laboratory, even one as… frankly pedestrian… as this one.”

“If they want it back, they’re going to have to come, themselves.” The thin man let out a low hum. “I have to say, though… Becoming someone’s errand boy is a far cry from leading the Cybercrime Division at the GCPD.”

“Hiding out in a warehouse you don’t own and cooking who-knows-what is a far cry from being a respected psychiatrist at first Blackgate Prison, then Arkham Asylum.”

Now it was a smirk, crooked and more like a gash in the man’s face than anything a human should produce. “Touché.” Jonathan’s expression darkened, the smirk transforming into a small frown. “Look, you’re getting to a point –that much is clear– and I don’t have all night.”

Edward made a show of glancing at his watch. “It’s morning, Jonathan. Half past two, to be precise.” He tried not to smile at the groan that earned him. “However, you’re correct. I want to know what you’ve been up to in here… specifically. That’s why I came, although the fact that it’s you rather than someone I didn’t already know means that I also felt like chatting.”

Again, there was a lengthy pause before the Riddler got any response, and Jonathan canted his head to stare at a spot somewhere to Edward’s right. The thin man closed his eyes, took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled slowly. “You shouldn’t have come here, Edward…” he muttered, waiting for another moment before locking eyes with him. “But, since you are…” Jonathan moved closer as he spoke, his strides smoother than before. “Maybe, you can help me.”

If anyone ever asked, Edward would say that Jonathan had hit him with some kind of blunt weapon… it was far less embarrassing than admitting that he hadn’t been paying as much attention as he should have and was taken by surprise… and experienced first-hand that chloroform really did smell fairly sweet…

**~*~**

“—seventy beats per minute… Blood pressure is… huh, one-ten over seventy. Not bad. Ah, now we’re getting there.”

Edward groaned, then cursed inwardly. Now it would be impossible to pretend he was still unconscious. Before opening his eyes, however, he took stock of his current situation –or rather, as much as he could of it. It seemed like Jonathan had put him in a chair while he was out, complete with restraining all four limbs to the piece of furniture. His head was pounding, and his mind was still annoyingly-foggy.

“Oh, come on, now. I know you’re awake, Edward.” All traces of tiredness had disappeared from Jonathan’s voice, leaving an oddly-detached sort of eagerness that Edward wanted to pull away from. “Open up those eyes, would you?”

“I hope you’re going to explain yourself, Jonathan…” he groused, even as he obliged with the taller man’s request. They were in the old staffroom of the warehouse, and Edward scanned the room for any potential obstacles in his eventual escape –plenty of discarded chairs in varying states of disrepair, a waste-basket laying on its side, several piles of books on almost every surface including the floor– before looking up at his captor expectantly.

“I suppose you should know that it’s now around four –same morning– so you weren’t out for that long,” was the initial reply, coupled with a quiet chuckle. Jonathan’s back was to him, although Edward could tell that his hands were busy with something on the large conference table that occupied most of the room. To one side, muted rhythmic beeping counted out his heartbeats –the heart monitor had no doubt been stolen from a nearby back-alley clinic– and they were beginning to speed up. The increased rate seemed to make the thin man pause. “…Still, you’re not kicking up too much of a stink at the moment… I guess I could let you in on it…” he mused quietly.

The Riddler frowned. “In on what?”

Now, Jonathan turned around to face him, another crooked smirk already firmly in place. “All those men who paid a visit went for a swim, ‘bout three or so hours after they arrived… Well, unless more than one came at once, then they… took turns.”

“You killed them.” Edward wasn’t quite sure if it was a question, a statement, or an accusation. He was, however, certain that he was not surprised in the slightest when the other redhead merely shrugged and didn’t deny it. “How?”

“Ah-ah, now, that’s askin’ for a bit too much, Ed… Can’t tell ya that just yet.” Now, it was Jonathan’s turn to shake a finger at him. Another chuckle burbled out of the psychiatrist’s throat. “So, did the Riddler do any research on me, between now and the last time we met?”

At least Jonathan wasn’t an outlier in Edward’s range of infamy… the knowledge actually soothed his nerves slightly, even though he knew it was a foolish reaction. Then again, he had hijacked almost all of the city’s electronic billboards just last month. “Of course I did. Doctor Jonathan Ulysses Crane, graduated Gotham University in ‘record time’ according to some sources, with a double-doctorate under your belt, taught at that same institution until an ‘accident’ involving a gun in the classroom which ultimately resulted in your dismissal, renowned psychiatrist at both institutions within Gotham’s boundaries that deal with those who fit one or both categories of ‘criminal’ and ‘insane’ until –again– you were dismissed… although I haven’t quite gotten through the process of digging up the reason behind that. You disappeared from most radars for a while, but I suspect you were behind the slew of incidents in September and October, last year—…”

“Well, well, well… I’m not sure whether to check my ass or scratch my watch. I guess you’d have t’be good at digging to get the job, though…” He let out a sharp bark of laughter, tilting his head to one side with such a sudden movement that it almost appeared that the man had snapped his own neck. “Still, you’re not the only one to do some research. Edward Nashton, with an engineering doctorate under your hat from Metropolis.”

Edward tried not to scowl at the use of his old surname –he’d worked really hard to escape the sickening shadow cast upon him by his pustule of a father’s surname– and forced a loud ‘ha!’ to help disguise his reaction. “Not the slightest bit as thorough as my own, but passable enough, I suppose…”

“Enough chit-chat, Edward…”

He frowned. Something about Jonathan’s words just struck him as… wrong. It wasn’t the exact phraseology –aside from the spattering of colloquialisms from an entirely different part of the country– and it wasn’t the volume, which had remained surprisingly even throughout the conversation. Realisation struck. It was definitely the accent, sliding in and out as if it were a vehicle running on greased wheels; the auburn-haired man’s face and posture had shifted alongside these changes, taking on two different ‘modes’ that –now he actually thought about it– were as plain as the man’s hooked nose.

Unknowing of the epiphany taking place, or perhaps simply uncaring of it, Jonathan continued, “There’s something I should ask first, to potentially avoid a repeat of all those others. Do you have any form of cardiovascular or respiratory condition?”

“I, wait, what?” the Riddler blinked owlishly. Jonathan shrugged, offering ‘I need to know’ in a deadpan as the only explanation… That just wouldn’t do. “Why?”

“Because I’d prefer it if you didn’t die. I’m not doing this to kill people, not outright,” he snapped, taking half a step forward.

“Well, that’s a relief!” Edward knew his sarcasm was practically palpable, and when it elicited a low growl from his captor, he also knew that he might just come to regret it… not that the knowledge did anything to curb his tongue. “I suppose I’ll just give you my entire medical history, then, shall I? I was born on the—…”

“Oh, for the love of—…! Keep it up an’ I’ll be cancelling your birth certificate.” Jonathan snarled, slamming his hands down on Edward’s bound wrists. “Maybe I’ll just pump ya full of it and see how loud y’scream ‘fore your heart gives out.” There was a pause, then one of his hands went for something behind the Riddler’s head. “I’ll take your lack of an actual answer as ‘no’, and commence the experiment… Do be sure to tell me what you experience… After all, it’s for the betterment of humanity.”

He opened his mouth to snap back when a cold sensation started to force its way into his right arm. The edges of his vision started to blur, but not in the manner that he’d come to associate with a loss of consciousness… rather, it was as if a sort of film had descended over his eyes. Edward’s heart started to race, and his breathing quickened –panic… that’s what it was, he was starting to panic. Twisting, he tried to get a look at what was being fed into his bloodstream, but the motion made the world around him swim dangerously, and he closed his eyes to fight against the sudden nausea that had hit him.

The pressure of Jonathan’s grip on his wrists had disappeared, and he opened his eyes once more to try to keep track of where the psychiatrist –former psychiatrist– had gone, only to be met with an entirely unexpected sight…

Everything had been transmogrified from its previous state. The walls dripped with thick and viscous liquid, the ceiling sagged disconcertingly, the table had become a quivering living mass whose breath Edward could almost feel go up his sleeves, the chairs were now incomplete skeletons with lingering scraps of rotting flesh draped over the bones… As for Jonathan, he’d disappeared, and so had the heart monitor; there was a different sound that had taken its place… a hauntingly-familiar slap-slap-slap that made a shiver run down Edward’s back before he’d quite registered what he was doing.

He tried to rationalise what was going on –drug, this was definitely a drug, what was it and how could it be dealt with– but the noise and the sights around him led his thoughts in all of the wrong directions, scattering his best efforts to every corner of the room, making his voice freeze in his throat at the same time. Whispered words brushed at the furthest edges of his hearing, coming from all directions at once yet never quite clear enough for Edward to pinpoint. Wildly, he looked around the room… something was coming for him, something dangerous… His brain… whatever it was, it wanted his brain!

Edward struggled against the restraints binding his limbs, managing to topple the chair and himself to the floor –oh, god, it’s covered in something thick and gooey and smelling faintly of rot and metal and offal, and now he was drenched in the stuff– before a looming figure reached for his arms and hauled him upright.

Getting away was highest on his list of priorities, and his throat –at last– decided to start working again. “Jo-Jonathan… this… this is not funny.”

He didn’t expect an answer, but one whisper suddenly became clearer than all the rest. “Funny? Naw… well, maybe a little…” The words were breathed almost directly into his ear, and –out of desperation– Edward snapped his head in that direction; he managed to render himself more dazed than before, with pain now occupying a sizable portion of his awareness. “You shouldn’a done that, Eddie… Now, things’re gonna get worse for ya than they already are…” the voice –Jonathan? Was it really Jonathan?– hissed.

Edward barely heard it, however, as a much more familiar face stepped out of the distorted gloom. It was a face that he’d spent so long trying –failing– to forget, to not see when he looked in a mirror…

“What’s this I heard about you gettin’ smart with your betters, again, boy?” his father’s voice growled out, and the apparition’s face morphed to become completely identical to Edward’s own.

That was when space, time, terror, and pain all melted into each other.

**~*~**

When Edward’s consciousness returned this time, his entire body was cold and aching, with tremors dancing along every nerve. He didn’t bother to keep his waking a secret this time and let out a loud moan; nearby, he could hear a soft scoff or snort. Forcing his eyes open, the Riddler peered into the gloom that surrounded him, searching for that damnable Crane…

It didn’t take very long, either… Jonathan had perched himself on a crate about three feet away, and –from what he could see– was watching him with a blank stare that seemed out of synch with the tension deeply embedded in every visible line of the man’s body.

With that knowledge in mind, Edward returned to taking stock of his new position. Instead of being tied to a chair –like a civilised captor would have done, had done, and had then apparently decided was not ‘done’– he now found himself sitting on the concrete floor, trussed up against one of the warehouse walls, arms spread wide to either side of him and legs left unrestrained. Another, more powerful, shudder tore through him. At least his mind seemed to be working at a level closer to ‘properly’, this time… “So, what happens now?” Edward made certain to load his voice with as much caustic irritation as he could muster.

“Try’na decide somethin’…” was the low reply. Jonathan sounded as tense as he looked, and his accent seemed to have thickened –unless that was a lingering effect of the drug still muddling Edward’s brain, which he really hoped it wasn’t.

“Oh, well, don’t rush on my account!” he snapped. “It’s not like I had any plans for the day, after all.”

That triggered a couple of quick shifts in Jonathan’s demeanour… First, his shoulders sagged and his head dipped slightly before shaking twice, then he suddenly sprang to his feet in a movement that honestly reminded Edward of a marionette. The tall redhead stalked towards his captive, a snarl growing on his face as the distance between them was eaten away by long strides; only the lower half of his face changed, though, which made the whole expression look all the more disconcerting. “Oh, no, ya don’! Don’t even think for a second that you’re gonna talk y’way outta this mess.”

“What mess is that, exactly? The fact that I’m being held against my will, or the fact that you can’t seem to decide, from one moment to the next, whether you’re going to be friendly or downright psychotic?”

“Now, now, don’t be rude, ‘less you actually want me t’jerk a knot in your tail…” Jonathan hissed as he squatted next to him, a little too close for Edward’s comfort –he would, of course, adamantly deny any flinching or recoiling his body performed if anyone ever asked him about it. The ex-teacher studied his face silently for a full minute, micro-expressions flashing across his features so rapidly that it was tricky to nail any significant meaning to a single muscle twitch. “Here comes the real test… Y’see, I’ve been paying ‘ttention to your… ‘fun’, ever since you started prancin’ ‘round the city like a peacock. I wanna know… wha’chu gonna do, now that ya tasted what’s cookin’ here?”

Edward scowled. “You mean that hallucinogenic horror you subjected me to?” He paused long enough for Jonathan to give him a mild smile and nod. “I’m honestly wondering that, myself. After all, I had hoped that amicability, at the very least, would be possible between two ‘rogues’ of the city who both share a more cerebral approach to our chosen paths… but now, I find myself wondering if we should consider ourselves to be explicitly at-odds with each other.”

Jonathan’s face blanked once again, and he leaned closer for a few seconds. “You… were hopin’ for something more… ‘pleasant’?”

There was so very little in the way of inflection or even emotion in what came out of the mad psychiatrist’s mouth that the Riddler had to don a puzzled frown. “I did say that earlier, didn’t I? You even—…” Edward cut himself off; something about Jonathan’s behaviour was starting to practically scream at him… Why was there such a swing from one sort of extreme to another, and why was he –when it was clear that he tried so hard to smother it– speaking like that…?

A quiet raspy chuckle came out of his captor’s throat, accompanied with a crooked smirk and a sharp tilt of Jonathan’s head. “What’s th’matter, Eddie—… Edward?”

It was time to run a test of his own. “Riddle me this, Jonathan Crane… What I wear upon my face can be touched but never felt, and you will rarely see without me. Yet, with me, you can see the intangible and speak to the inaudible…”

“You really think now is the time for that?” For the first time since Edward had even entered the warehouse, Jonathan’s voice sounded practically the same as that quick chat they’d had in the coffee shop –it felt like so long ago, now. His voice was clear and pure-Gothamite. The thin man’s expression smoothed out into one of mild exasperation, and his head even righted itself.

“Yes, I do. Don’t forget, I am the Riddler,” he replied evenly, pulling a muted smirk of his own into place.

Then, Jonathan’s face twisted and transformed back into that crooked cat-ate-the-canary smirk. “Aw, so now you’re try’na play by your rules? You so sure that you wanna do that?” Returning thick accent, check. Another sudden head-tilt, check… “Th’answer’s a mirror, ain’t it?”

Now, it was time to poke the bear just a little bit more… One of these days, Edward’s impulses would possibly be the death of him; that didn’t mean he’d be changing his tune anytime soon, however. “Hm. Figure that out on your own, did you?”

“Well, who else d’ya think there is?” A playful note had crept into Jonathan’s voice, now, making the already-lilting inflections start to dance.

Edward’s body chose that moment to give another quake, and –almost as if in direct response– Jonathan inched even closer. He tried to ignore it. Despite how much his mind was screaming at him to put more distance between them, the ex-cop did everything he could to force himself not to move. “I suppose you could consider it a hunch… although the fact that you’ve been speaking almost exclusively in what I can only assume to be your ‘native dialect’ for close to the entirety of my visit, as opposed to attempting to hide it as you did in the coffee shop… that may have something to do with it. Not to mention your—…”

He was cut off by one of Jonathan’s hands curling loosely around his throat. “Shh-shhh… Y’talk far too much for someone I ain’t even decided whether t’kill or not…” he murmured, his blue eyes narrowing in a surprisingly-lazy expression. “See, the thing is… Jus’ like you’re not sure what t’make of me… I’m not sure what t’make of you. That’s why I just had to see…” A wistful note entered Jonathan’s voice, and his thumb wedged itself against Edward’s chin –holding his head in place. “You’re… your fear’s just so glorious, so beautiful…”

“…That’s almost funny, I suppose. You, who wrote a thesis on the topic of fear, have an inordinate amount of fascination for it.” Edward stated, swallowing thickly when he felt the long fingers at his throat twitch. “Although, ‘beautiful’ may be going a tad too far –not even mine would be ‘beautiful’, at least not by my standards.”

Jonathan let out a low hum. “Ain’t you a textbook narcissist?” he asked with a crooked grin.

“According to some, yes.” Waiting a moment to allow his captor to respond, Edward’s expression hardened. “I’m not an expert in the field of psychology, but I can tell something is more than slightly ‘off’ about you. What—…”

Again, the Riddler was cut off from finishing what he wanted to say, although this time it was by way of a chuckle… The sound started quietly, but grew in both volume and shoulder-shaking force as the seconds ticked by. “Well! Ya sure are a sharp one, if ya picked up on somethin’ bein’ a bit different! Then again, ain’chu a ‘bit different’, too, Eddie?”

“What is actually going on, here, Doctor Crane?” Still, the laughter continued, although Jonathan’s hand vacated its spot under Edward’s jaw. He decided to try a different approach, even though he’d probably regret it immensely, especially if it fell through… “If you tell me, I’ll allow you to administer another dose of that compound of yours.”

The laughter stopped abruptly as Jonathan’s entire body froze; it was as if he’d been suddenly replaced with a wax replica, with the only movement –after at least two full minutes– being to widen his eyes and then lock them on the shorter redhead’s face. After another minute, Jonathan took a deep breath. “That’s a dangerous thing to bargain with, Edward…” Then, it was a pause, broken by a murmured, “…He’s offerin’… Can’t tell if he’s tellin’ th’truth, though…”

Edward bristled. “Why would I lie about something like that? I’m the Riddler, the one who seeks the answers to each and every question that passes through my brain, and you –my phobophilic friend– are a walking mystery to me, at this point!”

Jonathan’s shoulders curled forward and his spine bent in an unabashedly-predatory manner. “Are ya afraid of dyin’ without all the answers? ‘Cause maybe I should make sure that happens… make sure there’s so many questions buzzin’ around in that skull o’yours when you take your last breath that ya curse an’ haunt me ‘til my own dyin’ days?”

“I hate to burst your little ‘happy bubble’, Crane, but I’m afraid of no such thing. I merely dislike an unanswered question –I don’t fear one.”

“Aw, such a pity…” Now, it was a sing-song; Edward was starting to get a headache, just from how often it seemed like the moods of this ‘side’ of Jonathan Crane changed. He must have grimaced or let out some sound of displeasure, as his captor shuffled back awkwardly on the balls of his feet, a mildly-confused expression on his face. “Let me get this straight; you’re… offerin’… to taste that sweet terror again, just t’know what ‘the truth’ is? Which comes first?” The doctor leaned forward when he asked the second question, nearly to the point of balancing his weight on all four limbs instead.

“I doubt I could think clearly enough to process your answers if you get yours first,” he replied dryly, trying to keep any and all signs of trepidation far, far away from his voice. Edward was actually glad that he was no longer hooked up to the heart monitor –it would have called his bluff immediately– even if he wasn’t entirely sure whether or not Jonathan could pick up on such things without mechanical aid… then he threw that idea out, scoffing internally at the sheer ludicrousness of the concept. Jonathan Crane was a human being, not some strange sort of psychic bloodhound.

A soft thud drew the Riddler back to the topic in front of him. Jonathan now sat, cross-legged like a humanoid spider, with one arm propping up his head while the other was simply allowed to sprawl across his lap. Once again, a slew of micro-expressions flitted over the man’s face… almost as if he was having a more-or-less literal ‘internal debate’ –maybe his theory really was accurate. “Always so secretive…” Jonathan sighed, then shook his head with another of those rasping chuckles that Edward was quickly coming to associate with this particular version of Doctor Crane. “Right-o, then! Guess y’make a good point… But, you’re gonna have to ask your question again. I didn’ really pay much ‘ttention to it, b’fore.”

He huffed. “Are you actually Jonathan Crane?”

“Hmn, more’n you are, that’s for sure,” was the immediate reply. “Then again… almost anyone’d be less ‘Jonathan Crane’ than me…” The thin man snickered, adding in a stage-whisper, “Well, ‘cept for my Jonny, that is; that un’s th’real deal.”

Edward somehow managed to refrain from crowing in elation; he was right! The reportedly-brilliant psychiatrist was most likely in need of some therapy, himself, how ironic. “So, the answer is ‘no’, then.”

“Yessir, no sir.” He let out another snicker. “Been here long ‘nough to be counted.”

The admission made so many of the earlier oddities suddenly make perfect sense, at least when compared to themselves. Most of his discussions in the warehouse had not been with Jonathan, but rather with this… other Jonathan. That actually made him think of something else. “I can’t keep calling you –who are clearly something other than Doctor Crane– ‘Jonathan’…” he trailed off, arching an eyebrow in a silent invitation.

Evidently, it was a question that had been eagerly awaited. “Tha’s true. Jonny is ‘Jonathan’… I’m…” he paused, cocking his head to one side and letting the arm that had been holding it up fall to meet its twin. “…Yeah, yeah, that’ll do for ya, too. While back, I told Jonny-boy t’call me ‘Scarecrow’… You can too; ev’ryone will, eventually.”

“Scarecrow…?” the Riddler asked. “Why that?”

In contrast, it seemed he hadn’t been expecting that one; he jerked his head sharply to one side, blinking owlishly. “…It fits. When li’l Jonny’s a-sleepin’, and the sun’s gone to bed—…”

“I think I’m going to have to stop you there,” Edward interjected loudly. The last thing he really wanted was to have this… ‘Scarecrow’ going on tangents involving nonsense, let alone nonsense songs –his shoulders were starting to cramp up, after all. His captor scowled, one hand lashing out to grasp the ex-cop’s jaw, eyes narrowing.

“Don’ interrupt me when I’m talkin’, Eddie…” he crooned, tapping one long finger against the edge of Edward’s jaw. “You wanted t’know ‘bout me, so shut the fuck up an’ listen…” Scarecrow paused, blinking languidly and waiting for any further comment –Edward deemed it wiser to keep his mouth closed for the time being– before letting out another snicker. “Betcha wanna know what I’m doin’ here, hmn? Well, that one’s more of a secret… that’d take more’n just one dose –it’d need a dose of its own, just f’that.”

“I… I think I’ll have to decline, for now.”

“Pity…”

Frowning as much as the other man’s tight grip allowed him to, Edward allowed a small lull to occur in the conversation, taking the opportunity to try gathering his thoughts once more. One thing was for sure… while Jonathan may have made a mildly-permissible occasional companion, his ‘other side’ was about as erratic as a livewire… and at least three times as dangerous. This led him to the next most pressing question he had about the morning’s events –or at least, he assumed it was still the same day– and he cleared his throat in an attempt to force out any lingering tremors or uncertainty. “Why has Jonathan been… taking a back seat?”

“Mmn?” Scarecrow’s attention refocused on the Riddler’s face, having wandered to the side during the silence. When Edward repeated his question, the taller redhead hummed part of a tune that might have had something to do with mockingbirds –he really wasn’t quite certain. “Oh… See saw, marjory daw… Jonny’s been workin’ harder, he’s been sleepin’ an hour a day, ‘cause things can’t go any faster…”

How wonderful… using nursery rhymes as a stand-in for actually saying something. Edward squirmed, trying to lessen the growing discomfort nagging at his body. An odd hissing noise came out of Scarecrow’s mouth, only stopping when his movements did. “My arms are starting to die,” he stated in a deadpan.

Scarecrow blinked, leaning closer and tilting his head once again. “…Die?” That single-syllable word came out in such a puzzled tone that Edward found himself blinking owlishly in response –for once unable to formulate any verbal reply. “…Oh. Huh… Didn’ think o’that…”

“Could you untie me, then?” Edward finally managed to say, after several seconds of awkward silence. He didn’t expect Scarecrow to burst out into a fit of laughter, however. “What?”

“Oh, Eddie, bless your li’l heart…! I ain’t gonna untie you… not ‘til I know whether or not you’re gonna be a problem.” A wide grin spread across his face. “Jonny wants me t’let ya go, o’course, but… he don’ always do what’s best for him.”

“And… holding an infamous individual hostage is…?” Whether he had much of an ego or not, no-one could truthfully deny that the Riddler had succeeded in making a name for himself. That, and there was an issue with the man’s logic which desperately needed addressing… it was actually slightly painful for him to even contemplate leaving the subject alone.

“Infamy? Well, butter my butt an’ call me a biscuit…! We’re gonna have a lot more o’that than you, once we get started… Huh, not that it’s a race or nothin’, o’course.”

“…I am having great difficulty refraining from correcting the way you speak…” Edward muttered through gritted teeth. The grip on his jaw tightened for a moment before loosening entirely as Scarecrow pulled his hand away. Before he could dwell too much on his captor’s declaration, he continued with, “However, we are getting somewhat side-tracked. I don’t have any inclination to pose a threat to Jonathan –he seemed intelligent enough to pass the majority of tests that I may have decided to put him through, regardless. As you are… a ‘package deal’ alongside the good doctor, you may rest assured that my lack of interest is naturally extended to you, as well. Does that suffice?”

Scarecrow sat back, humming another nonsense tune under his breath. “An’… I can trust ya on that?”

“You’re far too frustrating to bother lying to.” He’d allow the other Jonathan to decide whether that was a lie or not.

It seemed as if Scarecrow was willing to believe him, as he reached up to begin untying the rope securing his wrists to the wall. “There any other questions ya want me t’answer?” he asked in a surprisingly-conversational tone –Edward actually had to stop and think about whether Jonathan had regained control of his body, for a moment. “If ya do, then ask ‘em.”

He wanted to, but… perhaps it would be better to err on the side of caution. Edward’s arms fell limply once released, and he pulled a carefully-constructed ‘thinking’ expression onto his face, hoping to buy some time while he regained feeling in each of his limbs. Scarecrow waited patiently for any sign of a concrete response, although he’d somehow produced an aerosol canister out of seemingly nowhere and had begun to play with it; honestly, the man was acting almost like a child with a new toy that they very definitely should not have… if one discounted the unblinking stare being sent his way, that is. “…Why ‘fear’?” he asked at long last, giving in to temptation.

The change that question triggered in the taller redhead was as instantaneous as it was unnerving. His shoulders began to shake in silent mirth, a hungry –almost ravenous– look settled in his eyes, a crooked grin slashed its way across his face, a low hum crept out of his throat… and his fingers clenched tightly around the nozzle of the canister. “Because… it’s truth. Jonny says that researchin’ fear is about as close t’findin’ the ‘real truth’ as anyone could get, but… me? I… just… like… it…”

One second… One second of tense stillness and silence… Then, Scarecrow sprayed Edward in the face.

 


End file.
